


Music and Patience

by aeruh



Category: Kingkiller Chronicles - Patrick Rothfuss
Genre: M/M, More tags to be added, Mostly an AU, i don't really know what I'm putting in the tags yet
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-29
Updated: 2017-01-29
Packaged: 2018-09-20 15:31:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9498452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aeruh/pseuds/aeruh
Summary: Mostly a "What if Kvothe's troupe never died and he met Tempi while he lived with them" AU I talked about with a tumblr mutual.(Basically it's just a lot of love for Tempi because he deserves all the best things)





	

_Barbarians_

Tempi had heard stories, been told time and time again what to expect, but nothing his people could have told him would completely have prepared him for such a storm of chaos and confusion.

These people were loud; they spoke their every emotion, their vague hand movements had no defined meanings, and they had an almost unnerving habit of looking one another in the eye. 

It was vulgar, really. Tempi was, for lack of a better word, absolutely _appalled._

When it came to their form of entertainment, however, none of the other... differences could even come close to the sounds that came from the people standing on the public stage. 

When he first heard them, if Tempi hadn't had better self-control, he would have flushed as red as the apple half-eaten in his hand. He was horrified; what were they doing, singing like that? In public, for all to hear, for no reason than the fact that they could? He had never seen anything so perverse. 

But for some reason, his feet did not carry him from the open air of the town square as swiftly as they could. He did not look away. He didn't try to block the sound from his ears. Instead he stood, staring unapologetically for all to see, as disgraceful as it was.

Tempi, at least, was not the only who had been enraptured because of the music. (Though he was sure he was the only one in his sort of... situation.) There were others gathered around, people of all ages. Children clung to the skirts of their mothers or they chased one another between the sea of spectators, laughing and squealing while adults clapped along to the improper noises and joined in on lines that they knew. 

There was pure emotion in the music. It was raw and exposed and Tempi knew he should turn away. He was a Cethan, he knew as well as any not to involve himself in this.

But the music made him want to move, and it wasn't in the direction he had come from. He wanted to move the same way the rest of the audience was, to the strange rhythm that rose and fell, with stomping feet and clapping hands and cheering voices. 

It was wrong. It was not of the Lethani.

...Wasn't it?

The audience swayed to the sound, and Tempi took advantage of the movement to inch forward to get a better look at the barbarians on the stage.

This was only a learning experience, a simple observation. All he needed was a look, and then he could walk away and never have to go through such a thing again. And besides, how could he deny he was curious to see the man who was draw others to tears and genuine joy with nothing but sound? 

It really was only a curiosity. 

But when he got to the foot of the stage, that was forgotten very quickly. 

Tempi noticed him first because of his hair. It burned, red like the robes Tempi wore, and like the fire that seemed to fuel his very being as he plucked at the strings of the instrument.

There was an energy in the music he created that could never be repeated by anyone else, and despite how bare and vulgar it was Tempi was entranced. 

He didn't leave, not even when the music was over and the crowd had dispersed. Despite his Adem blood, and the lessons he had learned to come to where he was now, he wanted to know more. About the boy with the burning hair and the music he breathed life into.

\---

The town was a small one, and Kvothe was sure his father had mentioned its name to him at some point as they came within its sight, but he was too busy thinking about other important things at the time. He was sure that one of those things were probably which song he would play for the audience, because when they set up on the stage later that night he already knew he'd chosen the perfect one.

So when the sun had begun to set and the troupe wrapped up its final scene of a well-received but little-known romance stage play, he finished up tuning his lute and made sure he was dressed well enough to be presented to the public. It was twilight by then, and everyone knew that it was a time of change; a strange, in-between place where the Fae were found and magic was very real.

Kvothe was Edema Ruh to his bones. He knew how to manipulate the hour to his advantage.

The crowd had dissolved into a mass of murmuring people by the time he was up, talking about the play, how some elements felt familiar but were in the wrong story, and it made him smile. Stories were often like that; they were rarely as clear people seemed to think.

Despite being an easy thing to notice, no one saw Kvothe was on the stage until he wanted them to see him. And when he did, he got their attention with a gentle, loving strum of his lute, the notes carrying easily through the free air the audience breathed. 

It was quiet, but it was as intoxicating as denner resin. The wordless hum of the masses fell away almost instantly, and the group of people became an audience once again. 

Kvothe didn't know the name of the song; or rather, he knew it at one point. To be exact, he knew it the second before his fingers touched the strings of the lute. But the title meant nothing after he began to play; it was more than a song after that, and the title was simply a thing to call it in passing after it was finished. It was energy; it was life itself. 

In the back of his mind, Kvothe knew the audience was still there. He could hear their laughter and their cries as the music told its own story. When it got to certain lyrics, those who hard heard it once or twice in the past pitched in for a little, adding their parts and fading out again moments later. They danced, they clapped, and all of this was his doing. He knew that, too, and it was something he was proud of. 

But for the most part, the audience faded away, and it was just the music. 

Well, it was normally just the music. But as he worked his way through the song, he could tell something was... strange. 

It was like walking miles alongside his parent's wagon with a pebble in his shoe until it caused an angry blister along the side of his foot. Whatever was odd... just couldn't be forgotten anymore. 

Kvothe never faltered in playing, but he looked up to scan the audience he had pulled in. They were dancing, swaying with the music, and their energy was so vibrant Kvothe could practically feel it in his blood. It was contagious, and he felt himself smiling despite what he was trying to accomplish. 

It didn't take long for Kvothe to notice what was so odd in the end. In fact, it stuck out rather obviously. 

Or, rather, _he_ stuck out.

It was the clothing. That was easy enough to say. Pure red, almost as red as blood, with belts and buckles, and a sword strapped across his back. He was blonde, pale-skinned, and had eyes as gray was a Waystone. 

He was an Adem mercenary; Kvothe knew that just from the clothing, if not for his physical features and the stiff way he carried himself surrounded by the joyful audience. 

What really caught his attention wasn't the awkward, almost uncomfortable way he stood in the crowd. It also wasn't the red clothing. Or even the fact that he was one of the Adem, of which many stories were told but little was truly known, who never spoke, let alone sang. 

No.

What drew his eye to the mercenary when it came down to it was the curiously that he could see reflected back at himself. The Adem man was slowly trying to make his way through the audience to get as close to the stage as he could, and Kvothe tracked him all the way. When (after what felt like forever) the stranger had accomplished his task, the song's timing was perfect and the story he wove with the lute fell to a close. 

There was more applause, cheering, and a few even offered up coin from their purses. They left slowly, going back to their homes, and the troupe knew they would be back later that night for more of the magic they created. Well, almost all of them.

The mercenary stayed. And when the square had emptied enough so that it wouldn't be rude to ignore the few who remained, Kvothe slung his lute case across his back and made his way over to the anomaly that was the man in red. He had never been one to keep to himself, after all, and he didn't see why he had to start now. Besides, this stranger seemed interesting.

**Author's Note:**

> The title will be changed once I come up with something better. I just needed to fill the space


End file.
